


Throwing glass at stone houses

by Archon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-09
Updated: 2010-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-06 01:17:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archon/pseuds/Archon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucifer is finally defeated, but Castiel has gone missing. Dean won't give up until he is found.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Throwing glass at stone houses

"Sam! Sammy!" Dean crawled through the wreckage, past the bodies of a host of demons, human now, empty and dead. He shoved aside what was left of the heavy, twisted, half-melted mess of the teacher's desk, adrenaline making it seem weightless. "Sam!"

From the far corner of the room, there was a shifting in the rubble. Dean turned and rushed over the debris toward the movement, hopeful but still guarded. Anything could have been left alive in the destroyed classroom, anything at all.

Except Lucifer. He was gone forever.

A large beam of wood slid to the ground, and Sam blinked out at him from the space it had left behind.

"Sammy," he breathed and wasted no time helping to dig his brother out, dusty and bruised but otherwise uninjured.

"It's over," Sam said, exhaustion and a profound relief evident in every word and movement that he made.

It _was_ over, the impossible task Dean had been carrying with him for nearly two years completed. Sam was safe and the advance of Hell upon Earth halted permanently, but still a strong sense of unease had settled in Dean's stomach and threatened to crawl into his throat.

Dean swallowed. "Yeah, it's over." He looked back out across the room, bits of the red, painted circle of Lucifer's spell still visible between the bodies and the charred homework and the broken desks. That spell had given them one moment of vulnerability, one moment to strike down the angel who had once been closest to God.

"Cas?" There was no sign of their friend, who was still curiously indestructible despite being earthbound, sealed in his human body. Dean scrabbled back over to the largest pile of debris and began pulling aside corpses and everything else in his way, heedless of where it fell.

He was interrupted by Sam's hand on his shoulder. "Lucifer completed his spell, Dean. I'm sorry."

"So what does that mean?" Dean pushed Sam away and resumed his task. "Cas wasn't like those other angels anymore. It might not have affected him like it did the rest."

"Lucifer was trying to get all of the angels out of the way so that he could overrun Heaven with his army. All of them. And no matter how he might have seemed sometimes, Dean, Cas wasn't human." Sam's forehead wrinkled, his expression merciless and full of pity at the same time.

"I know that." Dean shrugged off Sam's hand and went back to work. "But he is my friend, and I'm not going to leave him behind."

Sam did not say another word, simply helped him sort through the destroyed room, methodically checking every square inch of the space until they were certain not so much as a single dark hair or scrap of Castiel's clothing remained.

*

They drove back to Bobby's house. Rain, torrents of it, came sheeting down from the sky like a judgment the entire way, but they kept going. The Impala had never minded the rain. Dean's baby was the only one of them all who'd made it through the apocalypse without a scratch.

It was just like old times, Sam and Dean driving away from a successful hunt, and it should have been enough. But the car was a little too quiet no matter how loudly Dean cranked the music, and when they stopped at mostly-deserted stations to get gas, and there was no one there to reject a good, hot microwaved frozen burrito in favor of a bruised apple.

They had lost friends before, too many to count, but Castiel had become more than that; he had hunted with them, lived with them for almost a year. He had become family. Sam wanted to talk about it and tried once or twice, but either he'd known better than to press the matter, or he was too glad it was over, too newly relieved of his guilt to take on another burden.

He'd never been as close to Castiel as Dean had.

*

Dean fell asleep once, just over the border into South Dakota, having finally handed the keys over to Sam at their last stop.

He didn't dream of Hell, but of the strange, overdone hotel-like waiting area where he'd been held so he wouldn't be able to stop Sam from killing Lilith, from starting the apocalypse. He scanned the room slowly.

The pictures were all different from what they had been before: scenes of the world, cities and landscapes, animals and people, in what he recognized as drastically different styles but could not name. The table at the center was still there, but the beer and cheeseburgers were gone, replaced by the same statue he'd broken once before.

The statue frightened him in a way he couldn't begin to define. He looked away and saw Castiel standing in the far corner of the room, watching him, perfectly still.

"Cas!" Without hesitation, he ran over to stand in front of Castiel. But Cas didn't move, didn't greet him or even turn his head.

"Hey, say something, man." Dean passed a hand slowly back and forth in front of unblinking blue eyes.

"It is you, isn't it, Cas? What's wrong with you? Talk to me, you bastard."

Castiel still did not move, but the room shifted around them, and with a complete and total certainty, Dean knew that he was really there, that Castiel was alive.

Dean woke up to the sound of the rain hammering against the roof of the car.

*

Every hunter who'd survived the past few months had ended up at Bobby's the weeks before the final battle. Just inside the new, high fence surrounding the property, tents were pitched here and there, far enough away from each other for privacy, but well within earshot in case something went wrong.

Tired men and women stood out in the rain, lining up along the walkway to Bobby's house, shaking the brothers' hands or slapping their shoulders or even hugging them as they went along. Bobby was waiting for them too, sitting on his porch, a beer in his hand. When they reached him, he stood up and gave Sam a brief, manly one-armed hug, and then Dean.

"I'm proud of you boys," he said. They all pretended to ignore the tears in his eyes.

That night, the party was epic, but Dean simply grabbed a beer and tucked himself away in the kitchen with Sam's laptop.

Of course, he wasn't left along for long. Sam came in, his arm wrapped around Jo, who looked awfully happy about it. She'd grown up, had the look in her eyes of a real hunter, of someone who'd seen a little too much.

"I thought he wasn't your type," Dean said, grinning, although he wasn't sure he wanted her to remember who had been her type before.

"Jealous, Dean?" She grinned back.

"What are you doing in here?" Sam asked. Party's outside, man."

"Just checking up on things. Making sure nothing strange has been happening since Lucifer bit it." And if he was lucky, Dean might be able to find a clue as to what had happened to the angels.

Sam looked at him strangely, and then slid his arm from Jo's shoulder to her back. "Can you give us a minute?"

Her grin turned mischievous, and she looked like she was about to tease Sam about something or other, but then she glanced at Dean. "Yeah, sure, okay," she said, frowning at Dean for a second before walking out the door.

"What is this about?" Sam folded his arms over his chest and looked from his full, ridiculous height down to where Dean was sitting.

"It's Cas." Dean felt a bit uncomfortable discussing his dream, but if Sam could help, it didn't make sense to keep it to himself.

"I miss him, too-" Sam started.

"He's alive. He's out there somewhere. Trapped, maybe. I don't know."

"What? What makes you say that?" Sam slowly sat down in the chair across from Dean's.

"He was in my dreams, like before. He was there, but he couldn't move or talk."

"Are you sure it was the same thing?" Sam's voice was hesitant, as though he didn't like what he was asking, but felt he had to anyway. "That he was really there? I know you two were close."

Coming from Sam, the word _close_ sounded a little obscene, though Dean knew he hadn't meant it that way.

"Maybe it was just a dream," Sam continued.

"It wasn't."

"I just don't want you to get your hopes up." Sam leaned forward over the table. "I know how you feel-"

"He's out there, Sam." Dean didn't want to hear the rest of whatever it was Sam wanted to say.

"Then we'll find him." Sam gave in, turning the laptop around. "Here, let me show you how to use this for something besides porn."

"Like anything could be more important than porn." Dean grinned and took a long drink from his beer. No one was better at research than Sammy; if there were anything to find, he would find it.

*

The search didn't take long. Dean was just eyeing the last warm sip left in his beer, when Sam made a small sound of surprise.

"They're in the churches," Sam said. He slid his chair over and turned the laptop so that Dean could read it. "Thousands of them, scattered in churches and mosques and synagogues all over the world."

There were dozens of articles, buried at the back of regular news sites but headlining religious newsletters in city after city. The stories were the same: shortly after Lucifer completed his spell, marble statues had appeared in various holy places from out of nowhere. The workmanship was described as beyond anything found on earth, and the marble they were carved of was desribed as priceless.

"There's something about them," Sam said, bringing up an article about one of the statues, which had appeared in a mosque in New York. "Normally, Islam doesn't allow artwork of holy beings, but this statue has been allowed to stay and is being referred to as a guest."

"He turned them all into statues." Dean stared at the pictures of face after face, each androgynous, unique and yet uniformly perfect. He thought of Zachariah, who'd schemed and manipulated them to the very end, now just a knick-knack in someone's church. "Gotta admit, the Devil had style."

"Which leaves us with two problems," Sam said. "Finding Cas, and bringing him back."

*

When Dean fell asleep that night, he was not at all surprised to find Castiel waiting for him in his dream.

They were in a meadow, the grass nearly up to Dean's waist, surrounded by small indigo and yellow flowers. The sky was almost painfully blue, with large white clouds drifting by, their shapes exotic and suggestive, bordering on the erotic.

Cloud porn. Even Dean's dreams were awesome.

Cas stood as motionless as before, this time so close that Dean could see each individual hair that made up the light bristle on his cheek.

"We know what happened," Dean said to him. "We know what happened, but not how to find you. Can you show me where you are, Cas?"

There was no response, not even so much as a breath of wind to disturb the tall grass.

"Please." Dean moved slightly, so that he could look right into Cas' eyes. "Give me something to go on."

There was no change in expression, but Dean felt emotion pouring from behind Cas' frozen gaze. He glanced around the field. They were still alone, and so he reached out and took Castiel's hand, uncomfortable with the contact but not knowing how else to offer support. Castiel's hand was cool to the touch and moved easily with Dean's. But when Dean's fingers tightened, he saw Castiel's do the same.

Dean looked up. The corners of Castiel's lips were lifted in the slightest of smiles.

"You moved!" Dean squeezed Castiel's hand. "Can you talk? Can you say something?"

A long moment of silence passed. Dean searched Cas' face for signs of change. He was just about to give up, looking away and into the distance, when he heard Castiel's voice: "Have faith, Dean."

*

The next day, Dean brought out a map, which he pinned to the wall of his room. One by one, he began marking the locations of every reported sighting of an angel statue with a little red dot. Sam joined him, and then Bobby, and then Ellen and Jo, until before long the map was scattered with hundreds of little red spots.

"There's a definite pattern," Sam said when they stepped back to look at their work. "Lucifer cast his spell here." He stepped forward and marked the spot, a quiet, upper class Chicago suburb, with a black 'X'. The area around the mark was clustered with dots, a few lying so thickly that they were overlapping. The farther Dean looked from the center in every direction, the more distantly the dots were spaced.

"It's like they were blasted outward," Ellen said.

Dean swallowed. One of those dots could be Castiel, or Anna, or any of the handful of angels who'd rebelled against upper management to offer them help. They didn't deserve this. "At least we know where to start."

"What do you plan to do once you find him?" Jo asked. "Do we have any idea what Lucifer did? What that spell was?"

"We didn't know anything, 'till Dean's angel's friends showed up and let us know when to attack," Bobby said.

"Those weren't his friends," Dean snapped. "It's not surprising that they didn't feel like giving all the details, since this took them out, too. Dicks."

"They just told us that Lucifer wanted the angels out of the way, that we had to strike before the spell was completed," Sam explained. "Bobby, can you find anything on it?"

"Oh, sure. And while I'm at it, I'll find a way to take out every single ghost on the planet, too, and the werewolves." Bobby rolled his eyes.

"Don't forget the shapeshifters," Dean said. "I hate those damn things."

"So, what now?" Jo asked.

"We bring one of them back. See if we can learn anything," Dean said.

*

This time, Dean dreamed of a cemetery in New Orleans, of a tomb he'd visited long before Katrina had turned everything inside-out. An angel in the form of a female child gazed down at him, her empty eyes dark with age.

He could sense Castiel standing behind him and turned around. For a moment, the sky went dark, and he could see the after-image of wings.

"We're trying to figure this out, me and Sam and some of the others." Dean reached out and took Castiel's hand. It had seemed to help before, he thought, not bothering to wonder at how natural the gesture felt.

"Dean," Castiel said, his voice rough. Slowly, as though his human body – the punishment for his disobedience, soft and weak and fragile – had been frozen and was just beginning to thaw, he looked down at their joined hands. "Faith," he said, smiling.

"Never mind that now," Dean said, trying to ignore the warmth that crept through him at the sound of Cas' voice, which was even more awkward and disturbing than the feeling of holding Cas' hand in his own. "Can you help us find you?"

Castiel reached out with his empty hand, the movement painfully slow until Dean took it, their arms forming a circle between them. Cas looked away, as though concentrating. "Not yet," he said eventually, "but this helps."

"It sounds like all of you guys have been changed into statues, spread through churches all over." Castiel took a slow, difficult step forward, and Dean's voice faltered. "Have you ever heard of anything that could do that?"

"Nothing." Cas' voice was perfectly neutral, as though it didn't matter whether he spent the rest of eternity as a holy lawn-ornament.

"You sound like you don't even care."

"You can fix this." Castiel smiled, and then his gaze sharpened. "Dean, there are things that you should know, that I should tell you now, while I have the chance."

The look in Castiel's eyes felt like burning, and part of Dean wanted to stay, to finally get whatever-it-was they'd been avoiding out in the open. Only, he wasn't ready to hear it, yet; he might never be ready.

"You can tell me when you're back up and walking around, okay?" Dean said, breaking their eye contact.

The hands he'd been holding disappeared. He was alone in the cemetery, and the statue stared down at him mockingly.

*

Stealing one of the statues from a church would've been difficult, even for a group of hunters who'd made a living from other people's credit cards. The statues were almost universally loved, honored in their churches.

Of course, Dean couldn't help pointing out, it didn't hurt that they were turning out to be a status symbol amongst the organized religions. Heaven forbid anyone make off with the latest cash cows of the more ambitious clergy.

Fortunately, breaking and entering turned out to be unnecessary. While in some of the mosques, people had seen – and in three cases, been blinded by – members of the Host who'd dropped in moments before becoming frozen, far more often, there had been no witnesses.

"Islam forbids artwork depicting holy beings," Sam explained yet again over breakfast. "So, as a gesture of goodwill, the statues are being donated to churches and synagogues who would like them. It's a pretty big deal."

"So how about we get them donated to the church of us?" Ellen said.

Sam grinned. "As it happens, one's set to be given away this evening, about seven hours' drive from here."

Bobby turned from the stove, carrying a hot pan of scrambled eggs. He piled them up on Jo's plate, but she ignored them. Instead, she turned to Sam and said, all innocence, "Your priest outfit's still in the closet."

Even when they were little, Sam had never blushed, but the look on his face was pretty damn close.

*

"We're Fathers Hope and Livgreen, and we're here to pick up the statue," Dean said to what seemed to be the only person in the mosque. "Busy night, huh?"

The elderly man, his suit inexpensive but well-pressed, looked them both over carefully. "We weren't expecting you for another hour."

Sam made a show of looking at his watch in surprise. "Our secretary said six o'clock, I'm sure of it."

"She's hopeless," Dean said. "Makes good coffee, though."

The man stared at them for several more long moments. Dean resisted the urge to tug at the collar. Priests were damn masochistic bastards, he'd long ago decided, to give up sex _and_ wear monkey suits day in and day out.

Just when they were about to give up and go to Plan B – whatever that was – the man smiled. He introduced himself as Rashid, a volunteer, and led them to a back office, where a large wooden crate stood, ready for pickup.

"My sister works near Chicago," he said, while he wheeled out the box and helped them secure it in the back of Bobby's truck. "A lot of bad things, evil things, happened there recently."

Dean made a small, noncommittal noise.

"She calls me every night, so I heard all about it, even the things they wouldn't say on the news. And then one day, she said two young men had come to her building. One of them was very tall and in need of a haircut, and the other had a smart mouth."

Sam and Dean tensed, looking at each other briefly.

Rashid paused in his work and leaned against the side of the truck. "They said they were FBI agents, though they looked young. Still, no one wanted to question them."

"This is very interesting, but-" Dean tried, but Rashid shot him a look.

"Not too long after they arrived, my sister's boss began acting strangely. He made all of his workers go into a conference room, and he took out a gun. My sister saw that he was not a man, but a shaidan, with eyes black as tar.

"She was prepared to die, but the two young men came into the room. The shaidan knew their names, and it was afraid." Rashid paused, looking directly at them.

"So what happened?" Sam asked, when the silence had stretched far beyond uncomfortable.

"They were righteous men, men of faith, and the shaidan was defeated. My sister returned home that night to her family. If there were ever a way to assist such men, I would be honored to do it."

Rashid turned back to the statue and finished securing it. "There, that should do it." Looking at his watch, he continued, "If you will excuse me, we are expecting guests shortly, members of the clergy much like yourselves. A meeting might be most uncomfortable. Allah be with you on your way."

"Thank you," they said, shaking Rashid's hand.

*

"We sure got lucky back there," Dean said, halfway through Led Zepplin's _Houses of the Holy_.

"I'm not so sure," Sam said. "Do you ever wonder if maybe there is something more to it?"

"Like what?" Dean reached down and picked up a bag of Skittles, which turned out to be empty. He threw it into the back seat in disgust.

"Like maybe something out there is on our side? Like we were meant to have the statue?"

"Something? You mean like God?" Dean couldn't believe Sam was even going to go there.

"I don't know. Maybe." Sam shifted, as though to lean on the door and stick his arm out the window, but the rain still hadn't let up, and the windows were rolled up tightly.

"Aw, c'mon, Sam. After everything we've been through? Where was God in all that? Lucifer was going to destroy everything. If there was ever a time for God to step in, that would've been it."

Sam just gave him a look, his jaw set in the stubborn way Dean recognized.

"What?" Dean asked.

"We won, Dean. You killed Lucifer, without the angels' help. All they did was point us in the right direction."

"Cas was there."

"Yeah, Cas was there because he turned his back on the rest of them. Anna, too."

"So what's your point?"

Sam sighed. "Just that maybe – maybe there was a little more to it. You killed _Lucifer_, Dean. That shouldn't have been possible."

Dean shook his head. "I'm not drinking that Kool-Aid. If there is a God still out there somewhere, he doesn't care."

"Fine," Sam said.

Dean turned up the music.

 

*

That night, Dean did not have a chance to register where his dream had taken him, if it was anywhere at all. Everything seemed dark, possibly because his sight was filled with Castiel's face, nearly upon his own. He automatically reached out for Castiel's hands. The moment their skin touched, Castiel's lips were on Dean's.

Stunned, unable to move, Dean drank in the sweetness, the warmth and careful passion of the kiss. He fell into it, moving closer, demanding more, gasping when it changed, when Castiel's tongue slipped into his mouth, stroking his own, unmistakably carnal. Castiel's hands left his own to thread through Dean's hair and grasp the back of Dean's head, keeping him there while he was kissing him.

Instead of staying at his sides, Dean's arms betrayed him, went beneath Cas' coat to wrap around his back, bringing his body closer. An ache was building in Dean's chest.

A little voice inside his mind whispered that Dean was going to lose everything when this was over, but it felt too good to stop.

Castiel's lips trailed away, finding the sweet spot on Dean's neck, just below his ear, and in between kisses, soft brushes of his tongue against Dean's skin, he said softly, "You have to know this, Dean. How I feel. How you make me feel."

A full-body shiver wracked through Dean at the words, and it hit him how badly out of control things had gotten. How much of himself he'd already lost.

He pushed Castiel away. "Sorry, man," his own voice sounded weak, too shaken in his ears. "I don't know what kind of mojo you just worked, but I ain't like that."

Castiel looked at him, the expression on his face one Dean refused to interpret. "You wouldn't listen when I tried to tell you. I left everything else behind, Dean-"

"And so I owe you one? Is that how this works?" Dean knew that wasn't what Cas meant, but he had to say something, to fight, to keep himself from launching himself back at Castiel and begging for another kiss, another touch.

"I am sorry," Castiel said, looking down and away. "I didn't mean to hurt you or frighten you. It won't happen again."

"Damn right, it won't." And now it did hurt, and Dean was running out of places to hide from himself. So he lashed out, not believing his own words, reaching for whatever would cause the most pain. "You're a guy, for Christ's sake. Except you're not. You're not even human. This is wrong, Cas. It's sick."

Dean didn't look up when he felt Castiel vanish. He stayed in his dream, in the dark, alone with himself.

*

Their resident statue had been carefully set in the living room amidst old newspapers, a stack of books, and several empty beer bottles. Dean very much doubted that the being trapped inside would have approved.

That there was something trapped inside was as obvious to Dean as the rain still falling from the sky. He could feel it in ceaseless movement around the motionless statue, like the echo of too-bright light newly faded.

No one else seemed to notice, and so Dean didn't mention it. Most of those who'd been camping in the front yard had already gone anyway, drifting away in the usual manner of hunters when a job was finished. Those who were left wandered in and out to see the statue, a few in anger, others out of curiosity, and some with a reverence that left Dean shaking his head. These people knew what the angels had done. Some of them had even helped to set up the wards to keep them away.

Castiel had taught them how to set up those wards. He'd handed over information that could've been used against him without a second thought. He'd chosen humanity over his own brothers, even after they'd forced him into a perfect, empty copy of Jimmy's destroyed body. A body he'd refused to enjoy, despite Dean's best efforts at getting him drunk and laid.

Although Cas had apparently changed his mind about the latter. Dean could still feel Cas kissing him. His stomach had been in knots all morning, because the sick truth of it was that Dean had wanted it, wanted to be the one Castiel found pleasure in, wanted to show him, wanted to lie back and take whatever Cas felt like doing to him.

It was too much like Alistair all over again, too much like the causal way Dean had come to accept it when Alistair had continued to come at him with his knives long after he'd broken. In the end, he'd come to depend on those visits and in an insane, fractured way to anticipate them. The torture had kept him focused, kept him angry enough to stay at his best, to flay and rend and tear anything unfortunate enough to be strapped to his table.

And if Dean allowed it, Cas would be able to break him without even trying.

"I wonder who this was," Ellen said, breaking into Dean's thoughts. "Doesn't look too friendly."

Dean looked at the statue. It dominated the room, nearly brushing the ceiling, with fierce beauty and a focused gaze that seemed to look right into a person. Its graceful fingers were curled around the hilt of the long sword strapped to the waist of its tunic. The sword was innocent of any decoration, heavy looking, the type of sword that was intended to be used and used often.

"Reminds me a bit of Uriel," he said. "He's just itching to get his smite on."

"I hope you know what you're doing," Bobby said to Dean. "Damn thing's blocking the light from my reading chair. And who the hell are they?"

A few kids – most of whom couldn't have been more than twenty-three or four – were wheeling in a cart loaded with technical and scientific equipment.

"They're graduate students," Sam said, following them in, "from the local college."

Bobby's face looked like thunder. "And you invited them _here_."

"Well, it does smell like a frat house," Jo said. She and Ellen were the only people in the room who seemed unfazed by Bobby's anger.

"Please." One woman, her thick hair in braids, who looked much older than the rest, stepped forward. "We just want to take a look at it. No one's been able to get close to one of these - this is a tremendous opportunity." Her dark eyes landed on a pile of Bobby's books, and she sounded almost hungry as she continued, looking back at Bobby, "A lot has happened lately. Our colleagues don't agree, but we feel it's unscientific to bury our heads in the sand. There is so much we can learn."

"Their instruments are more sensitive than anything we have," Sam offered.

If looks could kill, Bobby would've been the only one left standing in the room. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but the woman rushed to say something first: "We brought beer."

Bobby carefully adjusted his hat on his head. "Suppose it can't hurt," he said in a low grumble.

"I'm Dr. Shanice Johnson." Her smile was brilliant, and despite his sour expression, Dean could see Bobby beginning to melt. "We'll be out of your hair in no time, I promise."

True to her word, within minutes, wires were attached to the statue everywhere, its disapproving countenance almost silly, helplessly glaring out through human technology.

*

"Did they find anything yet?" Dean asked Sam hours later, when Sam stopped in to tell him that dinner was ready. Dean barely looked up from his laptop, where he'd been continuing the search for the angels. Their numbers were shocking; with so many out there, finding Cas was beginning to seem almost impossible.

"Nothing," Sam said. "As far as they can tell, the statue is marble. Nothing else."

"Then they're not looking hard enough," Dean snapped. He double-clicked, and yet another stone angel filled the screen, this one holding a flower.

"Have you tried asking Cas?" Sam suggested. "You're still dreaming about him, right?"

"What makes you think that?" The words left his mouth in a rush and instantly, Dean regretted them.

"You shouted his name in your sleep last night." Sam was looking at him as though he'd grown horns. "I could hear you down the hall. What's going on, Dean?"

"Why are you so interested?" Dean shot, turning around to close one browser window and opening the next. "Just for once, I'd like to have a decent night's sleep without everyone in the world trying to play peeping tom into my head."

Dean didn't turn around, but the level of pissy in Sam's tone didn't need a facial expression. "What the hell is your problem?"

He ignored Sammy as he opened up another article, not trusting himself to answer. But the moment the words filled the screen, Dean forgot about their argument completely.

_Statue Weeps at St. Gregory's_

"So now, you're shutting me out. Fine. Something's been wrong with you ever since Chicago. Maybe even before. I thought we were past all of that?" Sam's voice continued in the background, but Dean barely heard it.

He was too absorbed in a poorly-edited description of how one of the angel statues had cried saltwater tears for nearly an hour early that same morning. According to the article, the weeping statue was being hailed as a miracle by the faithful, although the Catholic Church had yet to confirm what exactly had taken place. Picture taking had been expressly forbidden until the Church's investigation was complete.

"It's Cas," Dean said. It had to be. The timing was too close to be coincidental. Cas had been trying to tell Dean – to show Dean – how he felt, and Dean had treated him like crap. He swallowed, but his throat was dry. It wasn't Cas' fault that Dean couldn't handle being a secretly needy little bitch.

"Cas? What about him?" Sam asked, but they were interrupted by a large crash coming from inside the house.

Dean and Sam were up instantly, barely glancing at each other before racing to the door.

*

The living room was a shambles. The head of the statue was gone, rolled next to an end table shaped like an elephant's foot. The jagged edge of the break faced outward, sharp lines that were perfectly clean even though Dean half-expected blood to start pulsing out any second.

Shanice and Bobby were struggling to hold down one of the hunters, a young boy named Mike. Dean swore; he should've seen this coming. Mike's mother had left him when he was sixteen, telling him she'd been chosen as a vessel to one of the angels. When her body had turned up six months later, stabbed neatly through the chest in an abandoned parking lot, Mike hadn't had anyone left.

Bobby had pinned Mike's wrists, keeping the chisel and hammer he still gripped down and safely out of the way while Shanice efficiently ripped the wires from the expensive equipment to bind him securely. They worked together wordlessly, as though they had been doing so for years.

Sam rushed in to help, but Dean couldn't move, staring at the now-headless statue. The energy he'd felt coming from it earlier was gone. What remained was as dead as any of Bobby's other decorations, he was certain of it.

For the first time, he realized how helpless Castiel was. One sonofabitch out of millions with a grudge would be all it took, and Castiel would be gone forever. Not to mention that there were probably still a few demons scattered around. If a single demon managed to figure out what the statues were, it would have all the time in the world to destroy them.

Dean was heading out the door, car keys in his hand, before he'd even thought to leave.

*

"Dean, wait!" Sam came running out the front door, standing right in front of the Impala, just as Dean was pulling away.

Dean stopped the car inches from his brother's legs. Without hesitation, Sam ran to the passenger side, threw open the door, and climbed in.

"You're getting rainwater all over the seats," Dean complained.

"What's this all about, Dean? You planning to take off without me?" Sam's jaw was clenched, his eyes hard. Dean wouldn't have been entirely surprised if Sam punched him, then and there.

"It's Cas," Dean said, too tired to fight about it.

"You were saying something about that right before we were interrupted. So you think you've found him?" Sam still looked angry, but at least it was the familiar, almost affectionate, my-brother-is-the-world's-biggest-dick sort of anger instead of the I-could've-been-the-Anti-Christ-ask-me-how sort.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure."

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

"Nope," Dean said, forcing what he hoped was a cheeky grin. He barely understood what was going on himself; what could he tell Sam? That he'd realized the possibility that he might lose Cas was more important than his own messed-up issues? That he had feelings for the man – the angel – that went against everything he'd spent his life pretending to be?

"Dean, I just want to help, but I can't if you won't tell me anything."

"I know." Dean swallowed, then cleared his throat. "But as much as I appreciate all this sharing and caring, I'd rather listen to NPR all the way to Chicago, thanks." Before the first signs of geek excitement could present themselves on Sam's face, Dean quickly added, "Which we are NOT doing."

Instead, Dean grabbed a much-beloved Led Zepplin album and began to play it, loudly. Despite the volume of the music, he still heard Sam's muttered insult. Grinning, he ignored it and began singing as off-key as he could manage.

It was good to have Sam along.

*

Their destination was an hour outside of Chicago, and when Dean swerved to avoid what he insisted was a smiling lawn gnome in the middle of the highway, Sam insisted he take the wheel for a little while so Dean could get some sleep.

Dean couldn't argue, although the last place he wanted to be was in dreamland, where Cas might be waiting for him – or worse, might not be.

But no matter how hard he struggled to stay awake, the soft patter of the rain and rumble of the Impala's engine dragged him down anyway.

*

He was in a church, the enormous kind that were built purposely to make the people in them feel small. It was empty, and Dean's footsteps echoed as he approached the altar.

"Cas?" His voice came out as almost a whisper, magnified and echoed back to him off the high ceilings. Dean's heart beat furiously in his chest as he forced himself to speak louder, "Castiel?"

The next moment, Cas was there, standing frozen next to the altar. Dean raced the final steps to reach him, hesitating before he took Cas' hand.

Cas turned his head to look at him, his gaze emptier than it had been since they'd first met, even emptier than it had been when he'd told Dean that he didn't serve _him_.

"We think we've found you. We're on our way," Dean said.

He tried to take Castiel's other hand, but Cas moved it away before he could.

"Thank you," Cas said.

"What do I do, Cas? What do I do when I find you?"

"There may be nothing that you can do, Dean. Though I appreciate your efforts." Castiel was still looking straight through Dean, as though he were a stranger.

"Bullshit," Dean snapped. "Every spell has a counter. Those are the rules, and even Lucifer had to play by them. Think, Cas – can't you tell me anything about this spell? Anything at all?"

Castiel looked up for a moment, as though seeking guidance. "Only what I've told you before."

"Cas, there's something I have to say. About last time-" He stopped when he felt Castiel's hand slipping from his own. His grip tightened, trying to hold on, but it was like trying to catch smoke.

"I was wrong," Castiel said, emotions bleeding through for the first time. "I am sorry, Dean."

He slipped away completely, leaving Dean alone once more.

*

They arrived at the church at dusk, although the sky was so dark with the endless rain that it may as well have been midnight.

It was an old church, a little run down. Lightning flashed outside, the white light transformed by the stained glass windows into shards of color, beautiful but without warmth. Paintings and statues, some showing signs of age and wear, stood in almost every nook and cranny. The single occupant was an old woman, who knelt in the front row near the altar praying, and she did not even turn around when they entered.

The statue they were looking for was easy to find, its raw beauty like something alive, caught the moment between one breath and the next. It stood in a niche near the confessionals.

Like the others, its face was neither male nor female, but neither and both all at once. Where some were fierce, relentless, in their beauty, and others were remote, serene and seemingly untouchable, this one's expression carried a quiet, unassuming determination and radiated acceptance, hope. It towered over Sam, wings spread out slightly in a gesture that was both welcoming and protective.

It – His – feet were nearly covered in wilting flowers and rolled-up pieces of paper, prayers left over from the miracle.

This was the being who had gripped him tight and raised him from perdition. Dean would have known him anywhere. "It's him. Cas."

"How can you be so sure it's him?" Sam asked. "You said you never saw-"

"I didn't. Not that I remember." Dean said, still staring at the statue.

"Would you two like a moment alone?"

Dean ignored the sarcasm. "Yeah, that'd be great, thanks."

Sam shook his head. "When this is over, we _are_ going to have a talk." He turned and started walking to the door. "A serious talk," he added, and then he left.

The elderly woman had not so much as looked up at the disturbance. With any luck, she was hard of hearing.

"I told you we'd find you," Dean told Cas.

The statue simply looked down at him. Dean felt a bit ridiculous, but he continued, "Look, what I wanted to say – about the other night, what I said wasn't true. I guess I'm not used to all of this. And you're – you're like a part of me. I'll understand if you never want to see me again after this, but the truth is-" Dean broke off, looking up at Castiel's perfect face. He reached up and touched cold cheeks, cold lips.

"I always wondered what you really look like," he said, his voice lowering. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, Cas, and," he took a deep breath, pushing the words out in a rush, "and I wanted it, too. Still do, if you'll have me."

Dean slid a crowbar from beneath his coat. He looked at it for a moment, then at the statue. "I've been thinking about what you said. Faith, huh?" he asked, raising the crowbar over his head.

He closed his eyes, and thought of Castiel, the first time they'd met: _Good things do happen._ "Please," he whispered, hoping someone was out there to hear him.

Dean took a deep breath and brought the crowbar down with all of his strength. The marble, strong and solid to the touch, crumbled easily under the blow, the pieces breaking down to a fine dust that drifted to the floor like snow.

It was insane, impossible that this was actually working. Dean smiled. "Time to wake up, you bastard." A few more blows, and the statue cracked down the middle. Marble dust flew out, covering his clothes, painting his hands white. With great care, he set the end of the crowbar to the crack and pulled.

The statue split open, falling to the ground in two perfect halves and then shattering into nothing, the sound muted to a whisper despite the acoustics of the room.

Castiel, complete with his human body, fell out of the split, and Dean dropped the crowbar to catch him. It clattered to the floor, making all of the noise the crumbling statue hadn't, and Dean's eyes snapped to the old woman in alarm.

But still, she didn't move, didn't pause or break her prayer. Cas stirred in his arms, and Dean forgot about her.

Blue eyes, open and aware, stood out shockingly bright from the white dust that glittered everywhere, on Castiel's face and in his hair and his clothes.

"The Edward Cullen look really isn't you." Dean brushed some of the dust away from Castiel's cheek.

Castiel stood up and stepped back, tilting his head toward Dean, questioning, as he reached up and touched his face where Dean's fingers had been, his hands smearing dust all over the clean spot Dean had just made.

"He's this stalker vampire guy – never mind."

"Dean." Cas said, stepping back farther into the niche, into the shadows. Dean couldn't read his expression, and it was killing him. "Dean, close your eyes."

A brilliant glow streamed from Cas' eyes and mouth. Dean snapped his eyes shut tightly, but the light bled through them in a red haze, making spots crackle behind his eyes.

He felt Cas emerge from the human body that had held him so long. Feathers rustled, filling the stillness of the nearly empty building.

Castiel, trapped by his superiors into a human body, later trapped in unmoving stone, was now free, in his own form. Everything he'd suffered, everything he'd lost for Dean's sake had been restored to him.

Dean fell to his knees and groped blindly for Castiel's human body. He dragged it, unmoving, into his lap and held it. "Cas," he said, smiling even though the light continued to beat against his eyes, making them tear up.

In a heartbeat, the light was gone. Dean didn't blame Castiel for leaving. He was whole again and could go anywhere, do anything. Dean couldn't begin to compare with that.

Before he could think about what would happen next, the weight in his lap shifted again. Castiel was there, back in his body, smiling at him, and it was the most wonderful thing Dean had ever seen.

"I heard you," Castiel said, sitting up so that he was leaning over and into Dean, his weight on one arm. His face – that smile – was a breath away from Dean's. "What you said, just now."

His eyes were too bright to be human, Dean thought, and he was as lost in them as he'd been afraid he would be. And it was perfect.

"I meant it," Dean said. "I couldn't lose you, Cas, I-"

Before he could finish, Castiel's lips covered his. It was so much better in reality than in a dream, even with the mineral scent of marble dust everywhere, and Castiel's lips too dry from having been sealed up, and the floor, which Dean gradually realized was icy cold. He gripped Castiel's coat, pulling him in closer, and allowed himself to completely let go.

"Dean, I heard something, are you okay?" Sam's voice cut through the heat that was beginning to build between them, but when Castiel tried to pull back, Dean followed, unwilling to stop, even for a moment.

"Yeah, about that talk we were going to have?" Sam said, his voice strained. "Forget it. I don't want to talk about this. Ever."

Dean pulled his lips away slowly, sneaking back for one more quick peck before looking up at his brother, who did not seem nearly as surprised as he would've expected. He grinned. "Sounds like a plan to me, Sammy."

"We should go," Castiel said. He stood up and helped Dean do the same. "Before this is discovered."

As the three had walked out of the church, a forgotten old woman watched them with eyes that were ancient beyond the understanding of men and angels. She smiled at their backs. "Nice boys," she said, though they did not hear her. "Not the brightest, but I do like them."

**Author's Note:**

> Written for extraonions for the Renegade Angels challenge on LJ. A special thanks to the_glass_onion for her help and ideas, which I've gratefully used, and to thistlerose for the awesome beta. Any mistakes left are purely my own.


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